


Fear Is The Currency

by FeatherSkull



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: Death, Dehumanization, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, First Time, Slightly non-con, chase - Freeform, life - Freeform, philosophical
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2017-07-11
Packaged: 2018-11-30 22:03:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11472579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeatherSkull/pseuds/FeatherSkull
Summary: A drabble I wrote describing the point of view of a survivor who is slowly losing their sense of humanity as they waste away in the Entity's realm. In the battle for your identity and sanity, being reduced to trapped prey is the most horrific fate of all. But the Trapper was human once, too. Is he just as trapped here as you are? Together, is it possible to restore just a shred of your humanity?This is not purely smut, and the sex that occurs is not explicit, but it is a large element of the story. The main component is the character's slow dehumanization throughout.





	Fear Is The Currency

It all began with a look.

A single gaze, crossing acres of grassy plane. The sky dark, making the light of his eyes burn brighter. Haunting. Daunting. Dangerous.

I stood, the unnatural breeze flattening my shirt against boney shoulders, clinging amidst the sweat as my chest heaved. In some kind of twisted gladiator match, we each stood with heavy-planted feet, locked into familiar roles. Tangible, thick with anxiety and the sense of an unspoken partnership, we were pawns in this brutally endless dance. Not fate, but something far more sinister.

Never had he uttered a word, and yet I could hear the way his lips curled around my name. It was bitter on his teeth.

And then, the moment was gone. He turned, distracted by the far-off sound of a generator backfiring. And by the time his gaze settled in my direction again, I had vanished, as I do best, with only a trail of scratches in my wake.

That night, I ran harder and faster than I had ever before, because no matter where I turned, I felt that gaze lingering.

×××

He wasn't the first, and certainly not the last. There were many others, each calling to their own unique, vile strategies in this devouring chess game. He was, however, the only one that made me truly afraid.

In this darkness, there was a delicate balance between life and death, as both were utterly pointless. One consisted of breath, the other of blood. Neither truly mattered. The only constant was the chase. Here, fear was the currency, and thy cup runneth over.

Yet even braced with the crackling howl of electricity, or the roar of a chainsaw, none struck such pure and honest terror as the hysterical trigger of a trap in tall grass.

It was, if nothing else, the danger of being erased from humanity that proved its horror. It was enough to be forced into this arena -as little more than prey- to reduce one to a sense of animalistic desires. The adrenaline, fear, fight or flight. They were basic, simplistic reactions that made you feel less like a person and more like cattle being endlessly herded into the same, damning slaughterhouse.

Each killer had their means of defiling your identity, but his approach was more blatant, horrific.

A trap, designed for game. Yet so artfully employed to strip its capture of their last shreds of decency. Demeaning all sense of the civilized manners which were the only means of defending one's sanity, the trap demoralized your consciousness. It made you into what he desired you to be: meat.

It was this loss of human integrity that truly scared me.

So many nights I stood under the shade of half-dead trees (though I have come to question if anything here is truly alive) wondering where and how and when he would catch me. After all, it was only a matter of time, and in this realm, that was plentiful.

It wasn't until the night in which tables turned and I was faced with the choice of redeeming my humanity or saving my life, that I found he was little more than the prey he hunted.

×××

There were three generators running, and one man bleeding on a hook.

I could hear his cries as he struggled against the familiar loss of his soul. Was it Dwight? Jake? I could no longer tell their screams apart. There had once been a time where I might have wanted to save them. Now? Now that hardly mattered.

I was crouched behind the husk of a dilapidated generator, cursing as the calluses on my fingers flamed while I wrestled a rusted gear. If I could just get this turning, and connect the frayed wires...

In the distance, a branch snapped brutally under the weight of someone unnaturally large. He was here.

My own heartbeat cannoning in my ears, I ran blindly. The night was dark, the moon mostly hidden behind a thick embankment of clouds. Usually good for hiding, but fatal against him.

I could hear his footsteps -heavy, steady, intimidating- growing ever closer. I dove behind a passage opened between piles of rubble and discarded tires. In an earlier time, I might have uttered a plea or threw up a prayer. Now, I simply gritted my teeth and took to doing what I did best: running.

Slipping through windows, I found myself wishing he had discovered someone else. It was a selfish urge, one I ought to be ashamed of, but in this demented Eden, there was no conscience; only desire. And now, my only desire was escape.

My thoughts turned homeward. Not to the campfire I now spent many nights clinging to as my only relief, but to my real home. The one I took for granted in the days before the chase.

A brick house on a quaint street. A sickening mirror of the quiet lanes of Haddonfield. My home had been modest, well-kept. Not lavish or extravagant, but mockingly elegant compared to a rotten tent and a molding sleeping bag. It held memories I could no longer feel. Emotions, thoughts, people and faces and names that were slowly crumbling like the ruins of the Asylum. I almost wondered if he felt the same longing for an era before this wasteland.

I am drug from my curiosity by the sound of his cleaver slamming into a wall of concrete just beside my head. In the land of eternal night, daydreaming will get you killed.

He swings. Misses. I run.

It's endless. The same movements, hard earned by the familiar strain of muscles. We dance like this for hours, or perhaps only minutes, but I am too far gone to tell the difference. It's all the same. Always the same. Never-ending.

I pause to wonder if this is hell.

It is then, that he makes a mistake. Fateful. Almost obligatory. But a mistake nonetheless.

As if the punchline of some twisted joke, I hear the pin snap as the mouth of a bear trap closes around his ankle, iron teeth ripping into his skin as he lets out a menacing howl.

I am jarred. Completely frozen despite the aching heat of a summer night (or perhaps it is the tongue of hellfire). Like the prey so viciously sought, he is caught in his own trap.

Part of me wants to laugh. I feel victorious. I feel invigorated. Empowered. Moreso even than when I have narrowly escaped the jaws of death through an open door or hatch. Here, the man I have spent countless nights fleeing from in terror, is brought down by the very tool he has used to kill me time and time again. I want to spit on him. Kick him in the shin and tell him to eat dirt.

But I can't.

When I gaze down, prepared fully to scowl and sneer and snark, I am met with the eyes of a scared animal. He mirrors the same look I have given, emanates the same fear that has consumed my every waking moment since I arrived here. In that instant, I become acutely aware that he is just as much a prisoner as I.

I had always assumed, and perhaps wrongly so, that this place was a vulgar sort of paradise for them. Able to hunt and maim and kill as they pleased. No laws. No consequence. The hooks were a means of show, a necessary evil to participate in their favorite pastime.

But as I met eyes with the Trapper, kneeled in the grass and feeling more victim than victor, I realized that his name must be a source of cruel irony. He was just as trapped as the rest of us.

In this realm, replaced were simple urges, like hunger and the desire to urinate (though it wasn't uncommon to piss oneself) by the overwhelming presence of the Entity. I had always felt it, as though my body -flesh and bones and blood- were all a prize to be claimed. I was, in less poetic terms, a sacrifice. I had not ever considered, however, at what price my life came.

The killers were the vessels of the creature which ruled this domain, set out to claim bodies and satiate the being's appetite for fear and abuse. Never had I wondered at their dedication. I had assumed it was their own selfish enjoyment. Now, I realized that their motivation, too, must be fear.What would happen in those rare matches where we, the survivors, escaped? Would the killer, than, be sacrificed in our place? Was there a consequence to denying the Entity its nourishment? The fear gleaming in the Trapper's eyes told me that must be the case.

As I watched an unwavering sliver of moonlight dance over the distorted smile of his mask, I understood. He, too, had once been human. Perhaps, he had even been a survivor in this plane. But now, consumed as we were by the relentless night and the sweet promise of an eventual death, he had been shaped into a puppet fit for the creature's claws.

I stood above him with a choice I had never thought myself capable of. To run, or to stay.

If I had only my gut, I would have fled as fast as my feet could take me. I heard a generator bound to life in the distance. The flash told me that there were four running, and only one more would mean we could escape. We could rush back to the warm embrace of the campfire and our humble squabbles. But what, then, would become of the Trapper?

If I had only my gut, and my animal instinct as I had been so reduced to, I might have ran. But, a distant part of me that had once dedicated my life to preserving humanity, fluttered weakly in my chest. I believe it was once called a heart.

Stupidly, idiotically, I chose to stay.

Kneeling beside him in the dirt, I placed my hands on the iron lips of the trap, and pried it from the blood-soaked calf of his pants. He was silent, unmoving as I freed him. It wasn't until I stood and looked down at him that his hand twitched toward the cleaver lying in the grass. Closing my eyes, I waited for the familiar searing pain as dull metal severed my organs from each other. I waited for the blood and agony and regret of time wasted.

But it never came.

Instead, when I opened my eyes, I saw only the back of his head as he trodded off through the dark woods and disappeared with the fog. As the last generator clicked on, and I made a sprint for the door, I wondered if he understood too.

×××

Another night, another blood-curdling cry of repetition, as we no longer cried for mercy.

Only one generator was running, though several others had been woken but not fully revived. It was something of a strategy, to leave them almost but not completely fixed, so that the hunter would be forced to divide his or her time monitoring them. It wasn't much of a strategy, but matched against a man who could turn invisible and a woman who could teleport, it was all we had. You began to celebrate subtle victories.

I was making my way toward one of the almost-finished generators when I heard him. Though I didn't dare chance a glance over my shoulder, I could swear his stagnant breath was shoving its way down the back of my neck. I sped off into a maze of brick and wood and sharp corners. Hoping to throw him off, I dove through a clearing and over piles of garbage.

It was hilariously unfruitful. He quickly caught up, brutish footsteps stumbling after me as I forced my body further, faster, longer. I could feel the ache of muscles over-used, taste the pain of pushing myself too far. But with the sound of his breathing echoing too close in my ears, I had little choice.

Finally, I split through a thin clearing, hoping I had put enough distance between us to allow me to break away. Despite my heartbeat raging in my ears, I could hear him close by. I only needed a distraction. Some kind of simple salvation in a place so designed by chaos. A pallet of wood to throw down, or a window to hurdle over...

It hit like lightning. Pain vibrating like a ripple of thunder up the length of my leg and out of my lungs as I let out an involuntary cry. The trap had seized my calf in a vice and my mind went white as the bone was crushed in its teeth. Not even a medkit would be able to fix this, not that I expected any of my allies to come sweeping to my rescue anyway. I listened as two generators cruelly flickered on in the distance. I was alone, an animal pleading for death at the claws of its captor.

I could hear his footsteps slow as blood gushed from the fresh wound. It tasted like copper on the midnight air. I knew what was coming next. We had played this scene over and over, our roles set in stone, our movements predicatable and our choices unrelentingly similar. He had me backed against the wall of a run-down building, with only a thin passage to escape from and he stood like a concrete pillar between. My only chance of survival seemed to slip through my fingertips. It was the same unending plight. On instinct, I closed my eyes again and awaited the inevitable weight of his cleaver in my chest. In the distance, I swore I heard a crow's echo, "NEVERMORE."

And once again, he surprised me.

I felt the pressure on my ankle release as his thick hands pried the iron teeth off of my leg. I stumbled backward in dumb shock as he stood and loomed over me. What did this mean? Had he freed me only to strike me down anyway? Or were we somehow even, as if the debt from several nights ago were repaid?

As I wondered this, I failed to notice the two calculated steps he had taken toward me. Now I was pressed flatly against the building, with crumbling brick protruding uncomfortably into my shoulders and the base of my spine. The stench of his rotten breath clouded my lungs. The Entity didn't exactly provide toothbrushes and dental floss.

I had never really paid attention to the Trapper's body, as I was usually preocupied by our rustic game of cat and mouse, but in the shadow of pale moonlight with it pressed so closely against me, my eyes caught on the many scars littering his skin. With a sadistic fascination, I let my gaze trace over them, from the base of his neck down to where his thick overalls began. The spikes which stood like tiny mountains from his shoulders looked as though they had been shoved through his skin with violent force, not unlike the haunting metallic desolation of a hook, which I knew all too well. Behind the twisted agap mouth of his mask, a pair of thin, dark lips sat idle. I wondered if he had spoken a word in all the time he'd been here.

In the distance, another generator snarled to life and I became aware of how close he now stood. Barely six inches separated our bodies, and I felt the warmth that radiated from his skin. It never ceased, as though his lungs and heart and liver had been consumed by an incinerator which now lived in the hollow of his chest. There was something humbling about being so close. From here, I could see all of the wounds and blemishes I had never taken time to notice. Without thinking, I let one hand reach out and whisper a feather-light touch against a thick scar on his right shoulder.

Almost immediately, he recoiled from the touch, even dropping his cleaver to the ground. Something instinctively forced my tongue to utter an apology. It was only after it left my lips that it seemed, to me, ridiculous. Apologizing to the man who had spent countless nights murdering me and my fellow survivors in cold blood? It was farce at best.

And yet there was something curious in the way he stared at me. Fearing he had mistaken my flush of embarrassment for something else, I opened my mouth to speak when one of his meaty hands caught my jaw. His grip was firm but not malicious. In his eyes there was something puzzled but not inherently angry. He seemed... confused.

I would have been more than happy to slip away and make a run for the last generator had I been granted the opportunity. But instead, when he noticed my hand twitching toward the flashlight in my belt, he saw fit to grab both of my wrists in one thick paw and pin them to the bricks above my head. A flash of vulnerability ringing through my head and alighting my senses, I began to squirm and kick, hoping to break free from his grasp. However, I knew all too well that I was not escaping.

In a horrible moment, he dipped his head down to my shoulder, and I feared he was going to take a page from the Hag's book and rip out my throat. Instead, he did something that was far more terrifying. Finding a semi-fresh scar from a recent encounter with the heavy blow of a mace, he let shockingly dainty fingers linger over the discolored flesh. As if consumed with some childish curiosity, he drug the hardened calluses of his fingers, all cracked and exposed skin, over the pale breadth of my throat. And then, the unspeakable. In a flush, he pressed his lips against the sensitive flesh and sent a chill down my spine. The sensation of his mask and mouth on my exposed skin was death-defying. It was such a shock to my system, that I was unable to shield the breathy sound escaping my lungs.

He let out a noise I could only interpret as a chuckle.

Once again, he found another scar, this one on my collarbone, and pushed his chapped and charcoaled lips against it. I felt disgusted and equally conflicted. I couldn't understand what this was, where this behavior had come from, or what it could mean. Was he simply modeling after my own actions in a dementedly intimate way, or was this some new form of torture? Either way, I wanted nothing more than to wake up from this nightmare. Even in this plane where awakening meant a new chess match of mortality, I craved a release from this unbound sense of personal hell.

But this time, there was no waking up. Instead, the Trapper continued to press his grungey lips against every scar visible from the collar of my shirt. He even took the time to lay a sick kiss to one on my wrist from one of my darker, more desperate nights at the campfire. It was oddly welcome. My body seemed to react of its own accord, taking some strange comfort in the delicate actions of a man who had given me so many of the scars he now adorned. I was lightheaded from the loss of blood, and frankly confused by the Trapper's suddenly gentle movements, so I didn't notice that I was moaning until I heard him give a grunt of his own.

Somehow, amidst his fanfare of chaste kisses, my body had found a way to actually become aroused. In the clutches of a serial killer, I was getting turned on. If I wasn't already in hell, I would swear I was headed there. Somewhere, fleeting in the back of my mind were the echoed voices of youth pastors preaching against the temptations of sin. Did this moment, flayed against a wall and torn by the unnatural intimacy of a man who could claim to be just as much sin as savior, guarantee me a denial into the promised lands of clouds and pearly gates? Looking at the dusky dark plane which now engulfed me, with the Entity watching as some twisted voyeur, I realized it hardly mattered.

I tried, once again to no avail, to struggle from his grasp. But it seemed only to spur him on. Through the thick padding of his apron, I could feel that he too was becoming aroused. And for all his terrible antics, he was quite... endowed.

I almost wondered at how someone like him was even capable of something like this, when it occurred to me that arousal was just as primal a desire as any other. As twisted as it may seem, it made perfect sense that the Trapper would get turned on by a scenario like this. His prey backed against a wall, unable to run, at his will. It likely felt, to him, like the perfect time to pop a boner.

I, however, was feeling significantly less "in the mood" for this. My body seemed to be complying, but internally I was screaming to be released. The final generator had lit up in the distance. If I could manage to get away, I could run for the door...

It was then that I heard the shuffling as my own pants were unzipped, and all thoughts of escape fled from my mind as his fingers slipped into the wet, hot mess of my very-much-aroused cunt.

I let out a moan that should have disgusted me, but when echoed alongside the terror beating in my chest, just made me flush darker. I tried to focus on an escape plan, but the deeper his thick middle finger pressed inside me, the further I felt from the exit. I didn't want to admit I was enjoying this but... God how long had it been? I knew I should be revolted, and yet I couldn't help but moan as I felt his thumb on my clit and raging hard-on against my thigh. If this was some new form of torture, it seemed inherently more fun than dangling from a hook.

I came to the realization that I was faced, once again, with a choice. Cling to the last shreds of my decency that would be disgusted with this situation, or, for one night, let my primal instincts FULLY dominant my mind. I had to choose between fighting this, or relinquishing control. A resounding thought, as, in the Entity's playground, I felt the choice had already been made for me. And while the part of my conscience daring to peek out begged me not to... I gave in. After countless nights bleeding on a hook and allowing time to erase any lasting strips of my identity, I had finally, completely broken.

As the Trapper's meaty fingers continued to stretch me, I felt him grind the thickness of his clothed cock against my leg, and the final surrender of my dignity allowed me to grind back against him. For a moment, he was surprised, but quickly dove into this new delicious friction. His hand strained against the fabric of my jeans, and, feeling that he could now trust me not to run or stab him in the shoulder, let go of my wrists in favor of pushing the offending clothing down my hips and out of the way.

I shamelessly rode his hot fingers as I let my head dip forward and rest on his chest. My hands, accustomed to connecting wires and bandaging wounds, fumbled dumbly to undo the clasps on his apron, and when I finally got them undone, he seemed almost impressed.

Not wasting any time, the Trapper slid the clothing down to his knees, exposing a large cock that did not disappoint in length or girth. Grabbing each of my hips in his hands, he hoisted my legs up around his waist and I felt the pressure of his tip against my leaking entrance. In one fell swoop, he pressed inside and I let out a sound that a sick part of me hoped my allies could hear as they sprinted toward the exit.

Filling me to his hilt in his first thrust, I needed a moment to breathe and adjust. It was, like lube and a mattress, a luxury not awarded to me in this haunting plane. Though he was obviously restraining himself (likely with the full knowledge of exactly how fragile my body was, as, after all, he had become well acquainted with the sadistic pleasure of crushing my bones in his meaty grasp on countless nights like this one), the Trapper slid out and back in roughly, with my cunt seizing around him. He let out a groan that crept up the corners of my mind with black fingers, marking all it touched as impure and eternally damned.

It didn't take long, with sweat-sheened bodies, hips clashing like fighting bulls, arms thrown wantonly around his shoulders, for both of us to end in chanting breath and nearing our climax. The adrenaline in my veins, alight from such a deliciously foul and yet natural act, had me feeling like my chest might burst. My heart was beating faster than I had imagined possible, and I was sure he could hear it as it thundered away with each thrust.

Throat hoarse (for once from cries of pleasure rather than pain), and with all of my fellow survivors long gone, I knew this night was winding to a close. A small part of me dared to dread the ending. Somehow, here in the arms of a man who had violently murdered me time and time again, I felt more alive than I had in years. To know that it could end in an instant left me deeply unsatisfied (though I was being deeply satisfied in a very different manner).

I felt it rise like a wave in my gut. With fireworks on my tongue, I reached my peak and bit down harshly on his collar bone. Trembling as pleasure consumed my mind and body, I felt something inside of me, something I thought long buried or dead, spark to life. As he emptied himself inside of me, and a passing thought wondered if the Entity would allow me to get pregnant, I found myself feeling invigorated once again.

Even as he pulled away, leaving me on the ground in a puddle of my own orgasm, I knew something was different. I collected myself enough to stand and pull my clothes back on just as he was disappearing into the tree line.

A part of me wanted to stand in awe, in shock or brutal epiphany. But, though time here was endless, the small chances granted for escape were not to be wasted. While I ran for the open exit, his foul seed dripping down my thighs, I knew that tonight, as both the prey and the predator, in the most primal and animalistic of acts, we had restored just a little of each other's humanity.


End file.
